


Recovery

by g_kimber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Sexual Situations, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Palace John Watson, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Parenthood, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-12-10 23:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11702109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g_kimber/pseuds/g_kimber
Summary: When Sherlock discovers John dying of a gunshot wound, he panics. When John is asleep in a coma, he panics. John has just re-entered his life and Sherlock can't lose him again. John doesn't know what to feel or how to act when he's around Sherlock anymore. He mourns Mary still, and finds difficulty in moving on. Will these traumatizing events push either of the men to open up? Will either of them be able to express their long-buried feelings?





	1. He's My Friend

**Author's Note:**

> The way I'm writing the narrative can get kind of tricky. A lot of thoughts that go through the characters' heads will be written in italics. It should be easy to infer whose thought it is. However, sometimes there will be Sherlock and John scenes where both of their thoughts will be present, and you, as the reader, will have to use context to know whose thought it is. There; now that I have scared you into clicking away from my book I ask you one thing: please don't!  
> (Also emphasized words will be in italics as usual but that's a given.)  
> ENJOY!

 

"He's making a funny face... I think I'll put a hole in it."

BAM! The gun fires. Glass shatters. John recoils down to the floor. He hits the wood floor hard, his head bouncing before falling still. Everything around John becomes slightly muffled. The noises, his vision. The pain is too much. He is already slipping away. Everything is getting hazy...

_I that am lost, oh who will find me?_

Time seems to slow and speed up at the same time. 

BAM! Another gunshot. Something hits the floor. John can't move to look. He can't move at all. 

_Deep down below, by the old beech tree._

"John! JOHN!"

_Sherlock._

"John! John! Are you all right!? John!? JOHN!?"

Sherlock is shaking John hard but John can barely feel it. He can't speak either, no matter how hard he tries. 

_Hello? Are you still there? You have to help me! Please!_

Sherlock can't loose John. He has just gotten him back. Not now. There are so many things he needs to say. 

"John!? John! It's going to be alright, you're going to be fine. I called Lestrade, he and his team are coming, so is an ambulance. You just have to make it until then alright!? Oh god, John! I'm so sorry!"

_Sherlock!? I'm in a well. It's flooding._

There is so much blood coming from John. Sherlock tries desperately to slow its steady stream, but to no avail. He knows that bleeding is one of the things that can kill John here and now, so he applies more pressure. Sherlock's hands are drenched in blood and so is the rest of him. Sherlock can feel John's breath slowing. 

_The best and wisest men I have ever known._

"John!? John you have to stay strong! Please! For Rosie! For Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock chokes back a sob. Tears he didn't even know were there are falling on John's blank face, "for me."

 _Sherlock there's something_ _you need to know._

John's eyes begin to flutter shut. 

"JOHN! John, you have to listen to me! You have to stay awake! Please, they're almost here! I know it hurts, but you have to stay strong! Please! .... There—" Another sob. "There are things I need to say to you. You have to stay strong okay? Please, you've got to be really brave for me. Fight like the soldier I know you are..." More shuttered breaths. 

_Soldiers? Soldiers._

Sherlock hears the sirens. He lets out a glorious happy sob. He looks up to the above, something he never does, something he doesn't  believe in doing. 

"John! They're here, they're here to help you—"

When Sherlock turns back down to look at John, he sees John's eyes are closed. His breath even shallower. Sherlock feels John's pulse; barely there. 

_No flowers. My request._

"JOHN! John, you have to wake up! Open your eyes! Please! They're here! JOHN!"

_Everyone's asleep and I can't wake them! I'm all alone!_

Footsteps roar through the hallway. There are hands on Sherlock, pulling him away. Sherlock pulls back, he doesn't want to leave John's side. 

_The lights are getting closer!_

"No, please. He's my friend."

"Sir, we're here to help. We're taking your friend to the hospital. Can you tell us what happened?"

Sherlock regurgitates everything he knows. "Name: John Hamish Watson. Wound: gunshot, deep laceration to the head. Blood type: B positive. Allergies: none, though peanut butter can give him an upset stomach in larger doses...."

Another paramedic, "Sir. Sir! Are  _you_ alright? You're friend is being treated. There's blood on you."

"I'm fine... I'm fine! It's his blood. Focus on John."

Sherlock looks up into the paramedic's eyes from down on the floor. 

"Please. I'm fine. Focus on John. Fix John."

The paramedic places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder with a look of acknowledgment. When the paramedic stands to go Sherlock slumps back against the wall, whispering to himself through a shuttered breath, "John."

\---

"Sir! Sir!"

Paramedics and police are yelling to each other from across the room, everyone zigzagging around to help.

"Sir!"

"What!?" Lestrade wheels around. 

"There's a woman over here. She's been shot too."


	2. He Doesn't Live Here

Every single possible complication is running through Sherlock's brain at the speed of a race car. Every second there's a new tragic thought to wrack Sherlock's brain. He desperately wants to go and preform the surgery himself, but hospital policy only allows Sherlock to sit, worried and tired, in the waiting room. 

His phone buzzes. It's another text from Molly. Sherlock switches his phone off and puts it back in his shirt pocket. He has no interest in rehashing this afternoon's events, let alone "share his feelings" as Molly would say, and probably wants him to do. 

Sherlock looks at the clock on the wall across from him. It's already been an hour and half of surgery. Sherlock needs something to distract himself; he focuses in on the other people in the waiting room. 

 _Young woman; early thirties. Boyfriend is in surgery for...._ Sherlock scans her body for signs indicating her reason for being here.  _Ah! Hair scarf, frazzled hair, leather jacket and gloves. Motorcycle accident. She's here alone; parents of the boyfriend have yet to arrive, though she hasn't told them their son is injured, possibly because her boyfriend asked her not to, but more likely because they disprove of her and she feels uncomfortable. Too easy!_

Sherlock scans the room for a harder target. His eyes settle on a young, male nurse. 

 _Just graduated from medical school and believes himself to be better than the rest of his class judging by the way he styles his hair back and the way he keeps all of his papers clipped neatly in a metal clipboard. Wishes to be recognized by the male doctor he's speaking to; looks up to the other man... no! Has romantic feelings towards him. He's standing_ _ way _ _too close to the man and doesn't take his eyes off him. Again, too easy! Don't even get me started on his composure, John—_

 _John._ Sherlock's mind is back to panicking. He can't help but feel this is all his fault.  _If he hadn't been back on the drugs, God knows the list is long, then he would have been able to decipher the note, if he had—_

Sherlock's phone buzzes again. This time it's a phone call. Sherlock is in no mood to verbally converse with Molly, thus ignoring his phone once again. 

Sherlock steeples his hands, noticing the very slight tremor that still remains in them.  _Not quite recovered yet._

Another phone call's vibrations buzz into Sherlock's chest. He ignores this one as well. 

The hospital's loudspeakers crack on and Sherlock hears a familiar, clearly annoyed voice. His eyes flick up to the direction of the loudspeaker. 

"Sherlock Holmes, do stop ignoring your phone and answer my call please." And the loudspeaker crackles off. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone and answers it, lifting it up to his ear, "What do you want, Mycroft."

"I'm calling to check up on you. Isn't that what big brothers do?" 

Sherlock scoffs.

"Though I may be resolute in my disposition towards family, I do still careabout you. Your... What are we calling him these days?" Mycroft continues.

"' _John'_ will suffice as it is his name. But I believe it is the word 'friend' that you are looking for."

"Not quite."

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

"Why have you called? If it isn't important it will have to wait; I'm busy sitting here surrounded by crying people who live mediocre lives to a low potential."

There is a sigh on the other end of the phone. Mycroft begins again, "I have information regarding the present circumstances."

"And?" 

Another sigh, "I would like to discuss these matters with you."

"Well do go on then."

"In person. Shall I meet you at Baker Street?"

"No."

"No?"

"Is your hearing going already, big brother? I said what I said. No."

"I'm sorry but I do not understand."

"You never do. John is in surgery and when he gets out he will be in recovery,  _in_ the hospital. I will have no time to return to Baker Street." 

"I see. Then when will I be graced with His Majesty's presence?"

"We can discuss the information you have to share when John is out of surgery, awake, and capable of understanding you, incessant page."

Mycroft's end of the line is quiet. Sherlock's counted to a measly thirty seconds before Mycroft speaks again. 

"I do hope John will be alright. For his sake, and yours."

Sherlock is taken aback by Mycroft's kind words, for they don't exchange them often. 

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"One last thing, do call Molly Hooper. She looks very worried." 

"Looks?"

"Is your hearing going too now? Yes, Molly Hooper looks very worried. I have eyes everywhere, Sherlock. Call her, and when she asks if she can do anything for you, take her up on her offer."

"....Alright"

"It's not your fault you know. You'll understand that soon enough."

"I can't help but think contrary to that." 

"Well, as usual you are wrong. I'll be in touch, brother mine."

"I know you will. Goodbye, Mycroft."

Sherlock is calmer than he was before. Mycroft has always had that effect on him. As much as they annoyed each other and bickered, and as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, they did have some sort of familial effect on one another. 

Remembering his deal with Mycroft, Sherlock calls Molly; bracing himself for the onslaught of questions. The other end of the line clicks on after one ring.

"SHERLOCK! Oh god, what's happened!? I heard from Lestrade! John's injured! Oh god is it fatal!? Sherlock what has happened? Are you alright!? Please! Tell me how you're feeling, what are you thinking!? Are you hurt!? Is John still in—"

"Hello, Molly."

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"Well. I need new clothes. Mine are covered in blood and people won't stop staring, not that it bothers me, it's just annoying. As much as I wish to stay for the next hour and a half, I cannot allow you to choose clothes for me."

"I'm not following, what would like me to do?"

"Will you please come wait here while I go back to the flat to change?"

"Consider me on my way."

Silence from both ends of the line. They both begin to speak at the same time. 

"He'll be—" says Molly.   
"Thank—" Sherlock starts. "You first."

"He'll be alright, Sherlock. You two always are."

"Thank you, Molly."

"I'll be there in a few."

As Sherlock puts his phone away he sees a group of surgeons walk up to him. Sherlock stands at their arrival, "How is he?"

The doctor nearest to Sherlock speaks, "He's suffering from a severe laceration to the head. We've controlled the bleeding but there is a large amount of swelling. We're going to finish repairing the cranial tissue now."

Sherlock knows there's more. "But."

The doctor understands, "Yes, 'but'. Even after we repair the tissue there will still be cranial swelling. Once he's out of surgery we'll be putting him into a medically induced coma so nothing can hinder the swelling from going down."

Sherlock let's out a breath, "Alright. When will you be out again?"

"We'll be back to tell you when he is out of surgery. You and your partner are incredibly lucky."

"Yes," and Sherlock's sitting down and the doctors are gone. Molly will surely be arriving soon. He clasps his hands and waits. 

It's not ten minutes until Molly is sitting next to Sherlock. He doesn't look up when turns to him. She places a tentative hand upon his. 

 "Hey. How are you holding up?" she says in nearly a whisper. 

"I'd rather not do this," Sherlock says with almost no emotion at all. 

"Well I don't think anyone would," Molly consoles. 

"No, I mean  _this_ , talking."

Sherlock removes Molly's hand and gets up, turning to face her. "I'll back soon. Please text me if anything happens."

 

The cab ride is quick, giving that Sherlock paid the cabbie to step on it. The door to 221B is open before Sherlock is out of the cab.

"What's happened!?" cries Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock briskly walks through the door, shuts it behind him, and looks Mrs. Hudson in the eyes before pulling her into a hug. His voice, deep and quiet, recounts, "John was shot. He's in surgery. Doctors say he'll be out soon. I'm here to change and grab some things."

Mrs. Hudson hugs Sherlock tighter. But then springs back, tears in her eyes, "Oh, our poor John. He'll be fine though, right? You two always are. I'll make you some tea."

"You and Molly Hooper are in agreement; she told me that earlier. I really won't be long, there's no need to—"

"I'll bring the tea up when it's done, darling!" She waves her hand and she's off into her kitchen.

When Sherlock enters the flat he heads straight to the bathroom. He throws his clothes straight into the garbage and turns on the shower. Sherlock makes a mental checklist of things John might need. 

_Jumpers, sweatpants?, laptop, socks, underwear, toothbrush..._

Sherlock is out of the shower just as he got in; his hair still dry to save time. He throws on a new set of clothes and heads down the hall to pack John's things. 

At the top of the stairs Sherlock pauses. 

_He doesn't live here._

This thought hits Sherlock like a load of bricks. 

_Shit._

Snapping out of it, he calls Molly. She picks up on the first ring. 

"Sherlock? Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine. Do you have a key to John's house?"

"Um, yes, why do you ask?"

"When I get back I need you to go to his place and get some things for him."

"Are you sure you don't want to do it?"

"I'm not sure he'd want me there. Just do it, Molly."

"Yeah, alright. I'll head over when you get back."

Sherlock hangs up and descends down the stairs. He grabs his laptop and it's charger and the charger to his phone, then is gone in less then fifteen minutes since he arrived. 

_Tea._

"Mrs. Hudson is the tea ready?"

She calls out from inside her flat, "Didn't make any dear, just could tell you wanted to be alone. You're an easy tell."

Sherlock is grateful; and with that he is out the door and hailing a cab back to the hospital.

 

"They finished earlier than expected; just a few minutes ago actually. Guess that's a good sign? They've moved him to a room in the ICU. They said someone arranged for him to have his own. Did you?"

 _Mycroft._ "No. What room is it?"

"Three-seventy-eight. Want me to take you?"

"No, I'll be fine."

"I'll just go get John's things then. Do you know what you want to me to get?"

"I'll text it."

"Oh... ok. I'll be back soon. The doctors should still be fiddling with the machines when you get up there. Nothing to worry about though." 

"Goodbye, Molly."

Sherlock knows he could probably be a little kinder but none of that matters right now. He'll make it up to Molly later. Maybe.

The elevator dings open and Sherlock steps in, alone, pushing the button for level three. He pulls out his phone to text Molly his mental checklist. When the elevator doors open again Sherlock is met with a waft of sanitized air. He steps out of the elevator and dodges a oncoming gurney and heads straight in the direction John's room, following the signs. A few people give him sideways glances as he walks by; he should have brought that damn hat, as if that would have helped in this situation anyway.

_Three-seventy-four, three-seventy-six—_

Sherlock stops before he goes in. There are voices coming from inside the room. Good, the doctors are there. He enters the room and what he sees causes his mouth to part the smallest amount. There's is John, hooked up to machines left and right. He looks so frail and broken.

The doctors are still not aware of Sherlock's presence so he pulls his eyes from John and clears this throat. The doctors all turn to face him and a nurse looks up from from a monitor. 

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, I presume. Miss Hooper told me you'd be arriving soon. I'm Dr. Wallace, head surgeon on John's team."

Dr. Wallace holds out his hand to shake and Sherlock takes it.

"Sherlock Holmes. How is he?" Sherlock flicks his eyes to John again. 

"Incredibly lucky is what he is. If the bullet were any further to the left... well, he wouldn't be here. We've hooked him up to a ventilator, heart monitor, colostomy system, and he's being given a high dosage of the usual anesthetics to keep him under," the doctor waves his hand at each system as he names them. 

"I see. How long do you think he'll be like this?"

Another person speaks up; this time a woman. "We'll be keeping him like this until we believe the swelling has gone down enough for him to become conscious again. I'm Dr. Andrews," she holds out her hand as well and Sherlock shakes it. 

"What if the swelling doesn't go down?" Sherlock must know. 

"We believe there's a very good—"

" _What happens if the swelling does not go down?"_  Sherlock presses this time. 

Dr. Andrews appears taken back, but regains her composure and clears her throat, "Well, that would be up to you."

"I'm sorry?"

"He has a few expressed wishes but Mr. Watson's records have you listed as his power of attorney."

 _Me? What about Harry? Or his parents? Mary?_

Dr. Wallace begins, "They've been recently changed, Mr. Holmes. From a..." he flips some papers back on his clipboard, "from a... Mrs. Mary Watson to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

_Oh._


	3. Verbal Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't remember, Bill Wiggins (referred to as just'Bill' in the chapter) is Sherlock's self proclaimed 'protégé.' He makes appearances in His Last Vow and The Lying Detective.

After the doctors leave, Sherlock sits in the chair under the window in the corner. It hurts to see John like this, so weak, so frail. John can't even breathe on his own; the ventilator's noise quietly fills the silence. 

Sherlock gets up and moves his chair next to John's bed. He sits, but does nothing else. He doesn't talk, he doesn't move— he just sits and watches John's chest rise and fall with the ventilator.

Sherlock stays like this for an hour. He would have sat longer if Molly hadn't come back when she did. 

"Hey. Got us some dinner," Molly says as she walks in, holding up a takeout bag. She sets another bag down, presumably filled with John's things. 

"Oh. Well.... thank you Molly."

"It's really no problem. I got everything on the list. The underwear was a bit awkward, but I have everything you asked for. What about you?"

"What do you mean, 'what about me'?" Sherlock crosses the room and begins rummaging through the takeout bag. 

"I mean, when are you going to go home? When are you going to change, brush your teeth, sleep even!"

"I'll just have the hospital give me a toothbrush, Bill bring me the clothes I ask of him, and sleeping won't be necessary," explains Sherlock. He's opening up Chow Mein now; he's hungrier than he thought. 

"No. You're not allowed to do that." 

Sherlock swallows a mouthful of noodles, "Sorry?"

"I said you're not allowed to do that, Sherlock. We're all worried for John here, and we can't afford to be worried about you too. What am I saying, we're always worried about you. You will go home and sleep. The doctors will be fine here without your hovering all the time!"

"I appreciate your concern Molly, but someone has to stay here with John."

"There will be nurses here at night, and you can come straight back in the morning. Promise me, Sherlock. I won't have it any other way!"

"I really don't think that's—"

"Sherlock! Promise me!"

"It would be best--"

"Sherlock Holmes! Promise. Me."

"Fine! Are you happy? I'll leave John all alone with nurses and doctors who have yet to prove themselves competent."

Molly's face drops and looks as if she wants to say more but her pager goes off and their conversation is ended. Molly excuses herself and promises she'll be back tomorrow, taking the egg rolls with her. 

When Sherlock finishes eating, or rather when he finishes eating five bites of Chow Mein, he pulls out his laptop and sits back in the chair by John's bed. He reads a few research papers before his laptop dies and he has to set it aside and plug it in. Without anything to distract him, Sherlock has to look at John, as much as it hurts. Sherlock wishes there was something he could do, but there isn't. All he can do is sit.

After a while, a nurse comes in and Sherlock let's her make her rounds with all the machines. After about a minute the nurse speaks, "He can hear you, you know."

Sherlock breaks his gaze and meets the young woman's eyes. His eyebrows furrow.

"If you speak to him, he'll hear you. I was a skeptic too at first, but there's been research done on it; real cases. Even an attending here has researched it. The say it promotes a faster recovery. You might try it."

"Oh. Thank you, but I'd have nothing to say." 

"They say that memories are best. Or if you just talk  _to them—_ specific things."

"I'll take it under consideration." 

"Have a nice night, Mr. Holmes. He'll be fine here if you'd like to go home for the night." And with that, she's gone.

_Can he really hear me? Something to research. 'Go home for the night.'_

Sherlock promised Molly he'd go home. Since when did he keep promises like that? It's eight-thirty. Mrs. Hudson will be wondering where he is, he might as well go home. He appreciates the motherly attitude she has towards him, even if he doesn't show it all the time. 

_Motherly. Family. Rosie! Who has Rosie?_

Sherlock whips his phone out and calls Molly, now standing. She picks up on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Molly! Who has Rosie!?"

"Calm down, Sherlock! She's fine! Stella was at the house when I stopped by. I told her what had happened and she said she'd stay with Rosie."

Sherlock let's out a sigh of relief. "That's... good."

"You can go get her. I'm sure John would rather her be with you and Mrs. Hudson at the flat." 

"I don't know."

"I think you do. Really, Sherlock, go fetch her."

"John wouldn't want me there."

"But he would want you with Rosie. Go."

There's is silence on both ends of the phone. There has been a lot of that lately. Sherlock breaks it first, "Thank you, Molly."

"Really, don't worry about it—"

"No,  _thank you._ "

"Oh... always, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Molly."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock ends the call and looks down at John. All he wants to do is touch him. He mustn't let himself think this way. He can't. This is his fault. What he does allow himself to do, however, is fix John's blankets. He straightens and pulls them up to where he thinks is suitable, his hands lingering for a moment before he drags them back to his side. His eyes linger longer. Taking in every line of John's face. It's harder to pull his eyes away, but he does, and he grabs his things and goes. 

On the elevator down he texts Mycroft: 'I'll be needing a car.'

\---

Sherlock hasn't stood in front of this door in weeks. He can't bring himself to ring the doorbell. Or knock for that matter. Knocking would be best though, in case Rosie is asleep. Sherlock lifts his hand slowly and knocks quietly. Stella opens the door moments later.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to guess you're here for Rosie? Do come in."

The house is different. Not as tidy as it used to be. Everything is out of place, but not messy per say. Sherlock doesn't know whether to sit, or stand, or speak, but the choice is made for him. 

"Why don't you take a seat and I'll get Rosie's things ready. I'll be just a second." She directs a hand towards the living room and Sherlock nods in acknowledgment.

The living room is full of toys. Sherlock doesn't sit, but rather creeps towards the coffee table. Under a pile of things is John's laptop. Sherlock removes the clutter surrounding it and picks it up. He'll take it with him, John might want it. 

 _Clink!_  Something hits the floor. Something small has fallen from between the closed laptop. The glint from the light on it catches Sherlock's eye. He knows what it is before he's even bending down to get it. Mary's wedding ring. So new, almost no scratches. Clearly always being held by a intoxicated John, judging by the residual alcohol stains and finger oils on the band. 

_The nights haven't gotten any easier for him._

Should he take it with him? Will John want it? Or will John be angry he found the ring? Best to leave it. He tucks the ring behind a pile of books where it will be safe. He turns back around when Stella re-enters. 

"This should be everything you'll be needing. Bottles, formula, wipes, diapers, clothes, blankets, soaps. Right there's a crib," Stella points to a folded up crib by the door, "And this is her favorite stuffed animal," she holds up a little stuffed bumblebee before putting it into the diaper bag, "Should I grab the car seat?"

"Car seat?" 

"Rosie's car seat. You'll be needing that if you're taking her anywhere."

"Right, yes of course."

"I'll go get Rosie all loaded up in it, why don't you take this out to the car," Stella hands the diaper bag to Sherlock and he walks through the door to the street, grabbing the crib on the way. The car Mycroft sent for him is waiting, the soft hum of the engine sounding. The driver gets out and takes the bag and crib from Sherlock and puts them in the trunk, then opens the door for Sherlock to get in. 

"One moment. We have one more passenger."

The driver nods and continues to stare ahead. When Stella walks out the door she's already put Rosie in the car seat, all buckled and ready. 

"Alright! Here we are! She's a little sleepy so the car ride should be pretty quiet. I'll just set her car seat up. Why don't you watch," she sets Rosie and the car seat on the backseat and begins to demonstrate, "You clip in the buckle here and tighten the strap here. To take it out just unbuckle. That's all there is, simple enough."

"Yes, I think I'll be able to manage. Good night, thank you."

"No problem! Goodbye now!" as she pats Rosie's stomach softly. 

Stella pulls Sherlock aside for just a few moments and quietly whispers, "Give John my best, will you? I'm so sorry. I know you two were... close."

He nods, "Yes. Night."

Sherlock gets in the car and the driver shuts the door behind him. As quiet as this car is, the shut of the door has stirred Rosie. She makes the usual baby murmurs which make Sherlock smile. He reaches a finger over and pets her tiny hand. At his touch, Rosie undoes her fist and wraps her fingers around Sherlock's finger. Within a few seconds, Rosie's asleep again. Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off her for the entire drive to 221B. 

When they arrive, Mrs. Hudson is overjoyed. The moment she saw the seat filled with Rosie in Sherlock's hands as he walked through the door, an irremovable smile formed upon her face. She fawned over Rosie until Sherlock said goodnight (or told her that Rosie needed to sleep and that she had to go).

Once Mrs. Hudson leaves, Sherlock prepares Rosie's crib. This seemingly menial task is proving difficult when he has a a baby on one hip and only one free hand. Sherlock lays a soft blue blanket down first, and slowly and gently lays Rosie down on it. 

"There you go. Now, let's try our luck at getting you wrapped up, shall we?" 

Sherlock tries his best to secure another blanket around Rosie, making sure she'll be comfortable all night. 

"Shhh.... that's a good girl," Sherlock strokes Rosie's head until she falls asleep, "Goodnight, Little Watson."

With the crib in the living room, Sherlock keeps his door open to make sure he'll be able to hear Rosie if she awakens; he's normally a light sleeper anyway so it shouldn't matter. 

Sherlock brushes his teeth and changes into his pajamas. He's not tired but he could wake Rosie if he stays in the living room, so he might as well sleep. 

His sheets smell clean and fresh; Mrs. Hudson's done laundry then. She's going above and beyond these days. He ought to thank her, that's normally John's job. Sherlock just adds a, 'yes, thank you' and that's it. He could probably do better. 

Sherlock's not drowsy either. He's wide awake, his brain on high alert. He needs to make plans for tomorrow. Rosie will most likely stay with Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock goes to the hospital. He'll talk to the doctors and discuss course of recovery. Maybe Lestrade will have a few cases Sherlock can take a look at. 

It's late, and all Sherlock can hear outside is the faint, distant sound of sirens and driving cars. How did all this happen to them? What sent he and John on this course of doom? Could it have been prevented? Probably not, Sherlock and John have always had a way of intermingling with trouble. 

Sherlock is pulled from his thoughts by a spontaneous ambulance that blows right along Baker Street. The blast wakes Rosie and her wails call out to Sherlock. He pulls back his covers and throws on a dressing gown. Sherlock pads quickly down the hallway, like a moving apparition. In one full motion, Sherlock bends down, scoops up Rosie, and tucks her into his arms.

"Shh... it's okay. Everything's fine. Just an ambulance. Maybe even a case to keep me distracted tomorrow... wouldn't that be nice?"

Rosie only makes garbled noises in reply and Sherlock continues bouncing her lightly, swooping around the room while stroking her head softly. As Sherlock floats around the flat, Rosie begins to calm down and only the sound of Sherlock's movements fill the flat. 

"That's right.... quiet Little Watson—"

He freezes. Sherlock knows John figured it out and came to the hospital, but he hadn't thought about this. The knife isn't stabbed into the mantle; it's laying on its side. Sherlock whisks over, the DVD isn't there; John watched it then. How could he miss this? Of course! How could he have possibly missed it! What's wrong with him? The TV isn't exactly as he left it. And there, tucked away behind it, is the envelope. The envelope that contains the video that broke Sherlock to watch, and most likely destroyed John. 

This isn't fair. John has saved Sherlock countless times over: When Sherlock had no one, John moved in with him. When Sherlock doubted himself, John only saw reality. When Sherlock was being torn down by the public, John believed in him irrevocably. And now? John is lying in a hospital bed as a reward. 

_All because of me._

Tears sting Sherlock's eyes. He blinks them away, burying them back. Now is not the time.   
Rosie rearranges in Sherlock's arms, re-nestling her head in the crook of Sherlock's neck. Her breath tickles on Sherlock's neck. He sits down in his chair, not wanting to wake her by putting her back down. It's oddly comforting, holding a baby. Odd, that.

It's not long before sleep actually pulls at Sherlock. He doesn't want to go into his mind palace, for fear of dropping or letting Rosie slip, so there is nothing to distract him from exhaustion. Tomorrow will be a long day. Maybe sleep wouldn't be the worst idea. 

The leather squishes as Sherlock stands. Little mumbles come from Rosie as he lays her down, she really is a noisy sleeper. 

_Something to research. Research. Things to research. Vocalization with comatose patients._

Sherlock grabs his laptop and charger and plugs everything in. The laptop whirs to life and Sherlock types, "verbal communication with comatose patients" into the search box, making sure to run a few filters so he only receives reliable sources. He clicks on one done by a doctor in Sweden, quickly skimming it to see if it's worth his time. It says two-hundred pages and this doctor has ample evidence listed, so Sherlock might as well read this one. 

It's nearly midnight when Sherlock finishes. He's not thoroughly convinced, but enough where he can't completely dismiss the idea just yet. It still seems useless or silly to him though. 

Sherlock can feel the exhaustion pulling at him again. How nice it would be to give in to it. Tomorrow will definitely be long. He knows that John's swelling could (best case scenario) be decreasing by tomorrow. John will still be in the hospital for a while though. More separation. 

With the internet only proving skeptical, Sherlock sets aside his laptop, stands, and shuffles off to his room. His sheets are cold and feel rough against his skin. Every creak and crack from the flat sounds louder than it should, and Sherlock's mind melts into empty agitation. 

Sleep is an elusive thief for Sherlock that night.


	4. Come Back To Me

Mrs. Hudson stayed home with Rosie as expected. She was already up when Sherlock dropped Rosie off downstairs at six in the morning. She nearly shoved Sherlock out of the flat so she and Rosie could have some "much needed quality godmother-goddaughter time," whatever that meant. 

Molly dropped by around nine with coffee; black with two sugars. She spent an hour with Sherlock before she headed off to work. She told him of this man who died of a carrot allergy on the London Eye. (It wasn't nearly as riveting as she thought it was.)

After that, Sherlock was left alone for a couple of hours. He mostly sat and thought; perched up in a tiny hospital chair, not making a single sound. Every once and a while he'd jot something down or send a text, mostly creating future experiments. 

Eventually the doctors came in around noon. The whole lot of them. Sherlock doesn't remember any of their names, he had deleted them the second they were made known. 

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. How are you holding up?" a male doctor extends his hand and Sherlock shakes it. 

_Dr... Walen?_

"Fine, thank you. How is he?" Sherlock nods his head in the direction of John, who is completely still, frozen except for the rise and fall of his chest. 

"Well, considering the extent of his injury, he's recovering quite well. As of early this morning his swelling has gone down forty-five percent. We expect another forty percent by tomorrow, best case scenario, this evening. When the swelling has gone down eighty- seven to ninety percent we will begin to slowly wean him off the morphine and other anesthetics. Then, by the time he wakes up, if there are no intervening circumstances, there will only be around ten to fifteen percent cranial swelling left. At that point, we can administer medication to help speed the healing process up. Overall, Mr. Watson's recovery is going very well, if we stick to the plan he could be awake in a matter of days. He may have to stay for precautionary purposes a few days more. You must know how extremely lucky you are."

"Yes, yes, very lucky. What about post-leave side effects?" 

The female doctor clears her throat, calling attention to herself, "With everything Dr. Wallace has told you,—"

 _Ah, Wallace._

"— Mr. Watson should have the normal initial side effects. Whether or not those continue as time passes, or if he develops new ones, is completely dependent on how his body responds to the trauma, and if he follows his post-surgery and hospital release regimen."

"Yes, I know that. I'll make sure he follows his 'regimen,' what are the side effects specifically, is what I meant." It takes everything in Sherlock not to roll his eyes. 

"Would you like me to list them all?"

"Yes, I believe that would be very helpful in the long run." Sherlock's tone is bordering on patronizing.

The female doctor begins again, sliding her pen down what seems to be a list. "His side effects could include immobility, confusion, delirium, reduced muscle tone and de-conditioning, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, headaches, and nightmares."

"Nightmares?"

"Yes, the brain will most likely experience residual trauma mentally. Mr. Watson could quite possibly experience a few nightmares."

 _Great. That's just perfect._ One more thing for Sherlock to add to his list of things to worry about.' John, plus nightmares, does not equal compatibility. 

"Will he be given any medication for those side effects?"

Dr. Wallace jumps back in, "Yes, of course. We are going to prescribe a number of medications upon his release, and we'll explain when and how he should take them to the both of you."

Sherlock starts to feel a little dizzy. Is it exhaustion? Maybe. Lack of food? Possibly. Nerves? Could be, but it's never the case. He sits down in his chair next to John's bed, gripping the arm rest. The doctors seem to get the message. 

"Dr. Andrews—"

 _'Andrews', so that's her name._

"—and I will be be back later in the evening. He really is a miracle patient you know, and I don't believe in miracles. Good day, Mr. Holmes."

 _Miracle patient._

Sherlock's eyes flit up to John. He looks so peaceful, his face so placid. Sherlock knows every line of John's face, every hollow and every turn. Expressionless now, but a cabaret of emotions anywhere else. This isn't fair. 

Sherlock feels lightheaded again. He needs a distraction. Reaching into his shirt pocket, Sherlock pulls out his phone and texts Lestrade, 'Hospital. Cases. Lunch. Now. -SH' And as he's putting his phone away, he stops and retracts his hand, turning on his phone to send another text. 'Please. ,' it reads. Within minutes, Lestrade has sent back a text. 'On my way.'

It's the waiting portion that Sherlock hates. When Sherlock is left alone with John, his feelings begin to bubble to the surface. All the pain and remorse. How could he ever make up for that? How could he ever apologize? 

If only John could hear him, really hear him. Everything he's meant to say but never has. Sherlock reaches up and lays his hand next to John's. The two hands don't make contact, but Sherlock keeps his hand there, only feeling the phantom pull between each finger. His mouth begins to form words, but instead Sherlock gets up and grabs his violin and begins to play Bach. He floats around the room while playing the melody. John always liked this one, at least Sherlock thought he did. Every time Sherlock played this piece John would always say something along the lines of, 'That was nice, who is that?' He never seemed to remember it was the same song. Sherlock finishes the tune with his eyes on John; a silent dedication. 

Sherlock plays a few more songs and Lestrade arrives just as Sherlock is putting away his violin. 

"I wouldn't think you'd be allowed to play in here," Lestrade enters with a huff. 

"They have stupid rules which I of course ignore."

Lestrade makes an agreeing noise and dumps a bag on the small table already scattered with an assortment of Sherlock's things. "Sandwiches. And before you complain, you can just take what you don't like off of yours," Lestrade smirks as he hands Sherlock a wrapped sandwich. 

"You say that to me as if I were a child," Sherlock snips back, grabbing the food from Lestrade. 

"Yeah well sometimes you act like it."

Chuckles from both men ensue. It's the first time Sherlock's genuinely smiled in a while. A genuine smile where he's not being deceived or is doing the deceiving, a real smile between two friends. 

Lestrade catches his breath and asks while pulling out a stack of folders from his bag, "Mind if I run a few things by you?"

"Mm, please do. I could use the distraction."

Lestrade's face goes solemn. He looks Sherlock dead in the eye. Sherlock butts in before Lestrade can say anything. 

"Don't you dare start to console me like everyone else. It won't fix the anything. And if you're wondering if I'm clean? As a whistle. Did I cover everything?"

Lestrade gives a grim, half smile, one side of his mouth raises, "My initial list, yeah. Mind telling me what exactly needs fixing?"

"Are you daft? John is lying in a hospital bed after almost being shot to death! Do you think he's going to have even the faintest desire to see me when he wakes up? I could have prevented it! But no! I was high as a kite and couldn't figure out a stupid, bloody note! After everything I went through to get him to speak to me again? All that's worthless now!"

Sherlock is breathing heavily. His fingers are clenched tightly into fists at his sides. Lestrade looks shocked at the outburst. 

"Sherlock, that's not what's going on, you only got back into the drugs to—"

"Can we just get started on the cases?" Sherlock says emotionless, eyes aimed at the floor. 

Lestrade appears disappointed out of the corner of Sherlock's eye. Everyone is in Sherlock these days. "Yeah, sure. Let me just... Here. This one's a death in the middle of an art gallery," he hands a case file to Sherlock, "Teresa Smith, twenty-seven years old. Collapsed dead at three-thirty-seven last Tuesday. Had no previous health issues. Doctors have ruled it as a heart attack. Foreign substances were found in her blood stream, don't know how it got there though."

Sherlock flips through the folder, eyes skimming up and down the pages, analyzing evidence. "Foreign substances?"

"Have a look they're all listed."

"Was she a gallery attendant?" Sherlock asks while flipping through more pages of the autopsy.

"Uh, yeah. Just started actually, beginning of the month."

"Well then, solved it. Next."

Lestrade rolls his eyes with a sigh. Why does Sherlock have to be so... Sherlock sometimes? "Care to explain?"

"You say she was a new gallery attendant? Well, as a new employee she was still getting the hang of things. In that case, she was probably only monitoring paintings. But she got bored and was bound to touch a painting or two without gloves. Therefore, that's exactly what she did. By probably touching an assortment of paintings she accumulated a good enough amount of residue on her fingers, and when lunch came she didn't bother to wash her hands. She ingested a large enough amount of toxic compounds from paints to irritate her allergy and had a delayed allergic reaction until three-thirty-seven. Bam, dead by the afternoon."

"Well then. You make that look obvious."

"It normally is," Sherlock replies while handing back the folder.

"Care to do some more?"

"My minimum is a six today."

"Six you say? I think you'll like this one," Lestrade proudly hands over another case file. 

Sherlock and Lestrade go over nearly ten cases, each further convincing Sherlock of the uselessness of Scotland Yard. Passing by nurses shoot odd glances into the room when the see Sherlock and Lestrade reenacting murders with straws and pens. 

When they've finally gone through all the cases, and after Lestrade has complained about his coworkers to an uninterested Sherlock, they're left with a bigger issue at hand. 

"Grey, can I ask you something?"

"Hey, getting closer," he replies, referring to the name he's just been called.

"What?"

"Eh, never mind. Go on."

"You cleaned everything up from the flat?"

"You mean the..."

"Drugs, yes. The drugs, Lestrade"

"Yeah, of course. Packed everything up and hauled it away. Not a thing left."

"You're sure?"

"One-hundred percent, why?"

"I— I just want the flat to be... to be normal for John."

"What do you mean 'for John'? Is he back with you?"

 _Oh. He's right. Explain yourself._

"Well, I presume he will be during his recovery. And in all honesty, he doesn't have the money to hire a caretaker, and he knows that. Plus, he's fallen out with his sister, so no place there. It only makes sense. Why, do you think he won't want to?"

"No, yeah, I guess that makes sense."

"What? What are you getting on about?"

"Nothing! I'm just agreeing. Have you called his sister?" 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the man, and in turn Lestrade shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Hospital took care of it. She's coming down later."

Lestrade turns his head in John's direction, "Speak of the devil, how's he doing?"

"Doctors say they could begin to wean him off the anesthetics tonight. Possibly wake up sometime tomorrow. If that's the case, probably early morning."

"That's good. I'm guessing your not going home then tonight?"

"No, I'll stay overnight. Molly already made me leave last night. Says I'm too much of a worry while I'm here." He sighs staring not at John, but somewhat in a way as if he were looking beyond him. "John may not wish to see me when he wakes, but my brother will want to bombard John with information and only I can hold him off."

"You can't possibly think John hates you."

"He has good reason to."

"What? I thought you guys worked it out?"

"Not really."

_John confessed adultery to his departed wife's ghost and then proceeded to break down into tears. I comforted him. At least I think I did._

"Not really?"

"For God's sake, none of it matters. He got shot."

"Not by you!"

"But as a result of things I didn't do. It's my fault."

"Sherlock—"

"I do not wish to exchange opinions."

Lestrade raises his hands up in innocence, "Alright! Alright. Sorry, geez... I'm sorry, Sherlock. About everything."

"Isn't everyone. Don't you have a floor full of bustling do-gooders to get back to?"

Lestrade straightens his face in understanding, "Sure, okay. I'll see you..."

Lestrade gathers up his things and quickly exits the room. 

_Why so rude? He's only being a good friend._

Sherlock sighs and runs his hands over his face. He was right, like he always is, stress can ruin everyday of your life. When Sherlock glances at his watch it reads half-past-three. If Rosie is still on the same nap schedule as... as before, then she'll just be waking up from her afternoon nap. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson could bring her by. That would be nice. It would be good for Mrs. Hudson to see John too. Sherlock rings her and when she answers he's greeted with a cacophony of noises. 

"Mrs. Hudson!?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What's all that noise? Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine! Rosie and I are just enjoying some Queen!"

"Queen?"

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know who that is, young man. Is everything all right at the hospital?"

"Yes, everything's fine, I was wondering if you might bring Rosie by?"

"That's a wonderful idea! But is the hospital the best place for a baby? With all those diseases and such..."

Mrs. Hudson is right; she has a point. What was Sherlock thinking? But Sherlock can't be alone right now, he can't deny it. And Mrs. Hudson should come see John, even though Sherlock can tell she's afraid too. 

"Please."

"Oh, well, I guess I could. I'll pack up some things and come. Do you need anything dear?"

"No. I'll see you soon."

Sherlock hangs up before Mrs. Hudson can find another way to decline his request. She needs to see John, and Sherlock's not leaving until John wakes up. Sherlock owes it to him; it's the least he can do. 

The hospital chairs are uncomfortable and it doesn't take long for Sherlock to become sore in them. This always results in pacing and meandering around the room, mindlessly rearranging pictures and whiteboards; much to the disdain of the hospital staff. One of John's nurses happens to walk in on one of these pacing sessions and is startled by the rigid motions Sherlock,

"Oh! I'm sorry, should I come back in a few minutes?"

At the moment of her entrance, Sherlock had been facing the window, opposite the door, and upon hearing the nurse's voice, whirled around to face her, "No, you're fine. I'm just thinking."

"Alright, then I'll just," the nurse walks over to John and begins to press different buttons on different machines, each making their own chime and beep. She untangles a few tubes and straightens them out along the adjoining stand. 

"I'm assuming you're Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's been pretending to look out the window, when really he's been watching the nurse out of the corner of his eye. "Pardon? Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Jodie, one of Mr. Watson's surgical nurses. I just wanted to let you know, that he's one of the strongest patients I've ever seen. There were some points in surgery where it seemed... well, where it seemed grim, but he never gave up. I just hope you know that, medically, I've never seen a patient so intent on recovering. His body is working at an alarmingly fast rate. But don't worry, it isn't unhealthy, nothing to stress more over."

"Why, um, thank you."

"Oh, and before I forget, Dr. Wallace and Dr. Andrews are coming around four to take him for a CT scan to check the percentage of cranial swelling."

"Okay, how long will that take?"

"Hard to say. The scan itself should only take about fifteen minutes, but we're pretty busy today so CT could be backed up, which means they might have to wait a bit."

"If he has to wait, will he be monitored?"

"Oh yes of course. One of the doctors will be with him at all times to make sure nothing causes the swelling to increase."

"Good, that's good."

"The doctors believe his swelling will have gone down enough that they can begin to reduce the anesthetics."

"That's what they told me this morning. I'm trying not to keep my hopes up."

"That's no way to go about this! Hope, it's all we really have in the end. Ugh, there goes me with the meaningful stuff. You kind of pick up stuff like that after a while with this kind of job. I should be off. Press the call button if you need anything."

Sherlock likes this nurse. She not overly talkative, but not annoyingly quiet either. "Thank you."

She simply smiles in return.

The sun is beginning to set over London. The orange sun glints across buildings, reflecting its rays into the room. Sherlock can see the dust particles floating around the room, dancing in the rays. He's always liked the sunset. Not many people know that about him. Not even John. Sherlock doesn't obsess over it like some people, but he doesn't dislike the thought of watching the sun set. 

Sherlock gazes out the window for a while, even after the sun has disappeared. He views the city nightlife begin to trickle out. Soon, buildings that weren't open before will light up, and crowds of people will flood restaurants and bars. Ordinary people with ordinary lives. No Moriarty, no Magnussen, no... no chance for ending up shot and in a coma lying in a hospital bed because of your best friend. Lucky them.

Sherlock's thoughts are abruptly interrupted by shuffling and he glances over his shoulder at the source. 

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, we're here to take Mr. Watson to CT. I checked and we should only be a half hour," Dr. Wallace stands straight as a pole, gripping his clipboard to his chest, his knuckles white. 

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks with a glance at the doctors ghostly hands.

"What? Oh, yes. I'm just to make sure Mr. Watson gets in and out of CT as fast as possible. I had to bump a few patients. But! Now worries, everything's fine, everything's fine..." He follows the nurses out as they wheel John's bed out the door. 

Once the door has been shut behind them, Sherlock pulls out his phone and sends a text to Mycroft, reading, 'What the hell, Mycroft? Working your own agenda as always? Even now?'

It's almost as if Mycroft was expecting the text from Sherlock (Oh wait! He did.), because he replies back instantly. 'You know as well as I, that the information I must share with you both is extremely important.'

Sherlock's fingers are like lighting over the keyboard. 'That's beside the point!'

'You should be thanking me.' Sherlock can only imagine the smug look on Mycroft's face at the moment. 

'And why would I ever do that?'

'Because this way, my way, your doctor could wake up sooner. And all I want is for my little brother to be happy.'

Sherlock is not having Mycroft's games. At all. 'Your sarcasm is hilarious, Mycroft. Can you detect mine? " _My doctor?_ " What is that even supposed to mean? Stop meddling in John's affairs.'

'You know what I mean, Sherlock. And according to hospital records, they're your affairs as well? Power of attorney, how fitting.'

'Mycroft.'

'Yes, brother dear?'

Sherlock doesn't even reply to the last text. He's tired of Mycroft and his all seeing eye. He shoves his phone back into his chest pocket and glares back out the window, now reflecting back the image of a angry Sherlock. He looks tired, there are bags under his eyes. He hasn't slept at all for at least a few days. Even if he's tired, he'll wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes as a the result of an occasional nightmare. He's lost quite a bit of weight too, his suit appearing just a bit big on his bony form. John was always good about getting Sherlock to eat. If John hadn't been around all those years, Sherlock would probably be as thin and sick as a skeleton. An example of one of the many ways John Watson saved Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock's eyes focus behind his reflection and skim the glittering skyline. Various colored dots scatter the horizon and central London. All that projects from the hospital is the cold, artificial lights from within. 

The entourage of doctors bring John back around a quarter past five, just a few minutes after Mrs. Hudson and Rosie arrive, wheeling him slowly back against the wall again. They re-position all his machines and bags, making sure everything is back in it's correct place. Dr. Andrews (Sherlock can now remember he name because of her above-average sized Adam's apple) fills a few things out on her clipboard before she speaks. She clicks her pen closed and slides it into place in her pocket, "Good evening, Mr. Holmes," she extends he hand to Mrs. Hudson, "I'm Dr. Andrews."

"Martha, pleased to meet you dear. And this is Rosie, John's daughter," she shows off the baby on her hip proudly.

"Pleasure to meet you, now–"

Sherlock, who has now turned to face the band of medical specialists, silently nods his head in greeting. He slips his hands into his pockets, gaining obvious control of the room, despite his lack of a medical degree. 

"–We've just seen Mr. Watson's CT and he's made profound progress. His cranial and inter-cranial swelling has gone down just about eighty-eighty percent."

"That's good?" Mrs. Hudson's no expert.

"Yes, it is. I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that we can now begin to wean him off the anesthetics and sedatives that are keeping him in this state of coma, and administer medication to help speed everything up."

"Good news is simply news," replies Sherlock when Dr. Andrews looks his way. 

"Oh! That's a good thing though, right Sherlock?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Sherlock can't help but give a little smile in Mrs. Hudson direction. 

Dr. Wallace (Sherlock can now remember his name because his oversized mouth), is, oddly, beaming. His grin stretches from ear to ear. 

"We will keep Mr. Watson on a small amount of painkillers for the obvious reasons, but we will take away the majority of the sedatives keeping him asleep. We will also deliver medication to assist his waking up. He should wake up somewhere between early tomorrow morning and late afternoon tomorrow, there's really no telling when exactly, just tomorrow. After anesthetics are reduced it's all up to the patient. Shall we begin?"

"Alright."

The rest of the nurses swarm upon John. Each delving onto a different machine. They even took the ventilator. Sherlock questions them on this, "Won't he be needing that to breathe?" he asks, raising a hand and finger to point.

"Oh, no Mr. Holmes. The CT scan gave us the confidence that he'll be able to breathe independently going forward. No need to worry," butts in Dr. Andrews before the poor nurse even had a chance to open her mouth. 

"Sorry, my apologies," Sherlock gives a half smile to the nurse handling the ventilator. She smiles back and continues with her work. 

It isn't until seven until the very last person leaves the room. People were constantly shuffling in and out, adding new settings on the monitors, checking John's pulse. But finally, Dr. Andrews came in for one last overview and no one has been back since. 

Rosie's awake presently, and happily giggling in Mrs. Hudson's lap, gleefully unaware of the present circumstances. Sherlock is sitting in a chair besides John's bed. John looks so much more like himself now that all the machines are gone and there isn't a tube stuck down his throat. He'll be awake soon, and by soon, really hours. 

"Sherlock?"

He turns his head towards Mrs. Hudson, raising his eyebrows in question. 

"Don't you think you should say something to him?"

"You mean speak to him?"

"I think could be a good idea. Letting him know there are people waiting for him to wake up."

"If you really want to, be my guest."

"No, it has to be you, Sherlock."

"That's ridiculous, you just do it."

"No."

"Then go get a nurse then."

"No!"

"Alright, fine by me, we''ll just sit here then."

"Sherlock Holmes! Stop acting like a silly child and say something to him."

"I don't understand why it has to be me."

"Because it has to be."

"Why."

"Because you're the only one, Sherlock. You're the only one who can get through to him. You're the only one who truly knows John Watson."

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond. He just stares back blankly. 

"I'll give you the room. I could use a cuppa anyway." And with that Mrs. Hudson scoops up Rosie and shuts the door behind her.

_Bloody hell. This is just perfect. This is ridiculous. Not even John would do this._

_...Would he?_

No. Sherlock wasn't going to be silly. John was asleep and couldn't hear him. Nothing Sherlock were to say would matter. He'd just sit and wait for Mrs. Hudson to come back.

... ... ... _Fine. You win Mrs. Hudson_

"Ahem," Sherlock clears his throat and repositions himself in his chair. 

_No, never mind._

Sherlock's eyes move to John and he bites the inside of his cheek.

_Oh, screw it._

Deep breath. Another deep breath. A self-pitiful sigh. What was he doing? A fold inward of the lips, and then, "Ok.

Ok, John. It's...me. Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson said I should say something to you and you know how she can be, so, here I am, talking to you, while you're asleep.

I just... just wake up. Alright, John? If not for me, then for Rosie and Mrs. Hudson. Because they're all still here, waiting for you to come back. Can you just do that, John?"

He's fiddling with the hem of his suit jacket now. Unsure of where to go next. Maybe he'll just stop. But the words just come.

"Things aren't good when you're not around. For me, I mean. It seems I've become a bit... _codependent._.

The words are like sandpaper on his tongue.

You... Mrs. Hudson says you keep me out of trouble. I guess she's right in a way. Huh, it's pathetic isn't it. You try and keep me out of trouble and all I do is drag you into it. I'm not good for you. Or Rosie for that matter. So, if you wake up, I promise I'll- I promise I'll leave you be. You and Rosie deserve better.

But you have to wake up. That's the deal. I couldn't live knowing I did this to you. I couldn't live, I couldn't live without you.

Alive, I mean. Alive. Yes, definitely alive..."

Sherlock stops fiddling with his jacket and fearfully looks up at John. He breathes in a shattered breath, and barely whispers, 

" _Please._ Come back to me."

He sits motionless for the next few minutes until there's a soft knock on the door and the click of the handle turning.

"Sherlock?... Oh, Sherlock. Are you alright?"

_Keep. It. Together_

But his body doesn't listen and Sherlock turns so he can see Mrs. Hudson out of the corner of his eye, and all he utters is a single, broken, "No."

That's all Mrs. Hudson needs, just a 'no' and she's crossing the room and tucking Sherlock's head into her side. "It'll be alright. You two always are."

They stay like that for a while. Rosie is asleep in Mrs. Hudson's right arm and her left is rested gently in Sherlock's curls. She gives no intention of moving and Sherlock doesn't try to pull away. Neither of them say a word, the only sounds are Rosie's occasional sleepy coo or the sharp beep of the heart monitor every thirty seconds or so.

Eventually, Sherlock does pull away, but he doesn't lose contact completely. He takes Mrs. Hudson's hand that was in his hair and gives it a gently squeeze. 

"You should take Rosie home. Let her sleep in a proper bed."

"That's what you need young man. But I'm assuming that's not going to happen is it, hm?" she replies with a knowing smile.

"No, it isn't. Let me get your coat."

Sherlock helps Mrs. Hudson slip into her coat and then bundle up Rosie before he holds the door open for the both of them. Mrs. Hudson pauses in the doorway and presses a kiss to Sherlock's free hand.

"It'll all turn out, I promise you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what we'd do without you."

She tuts, gives Sherlock a warm smile, and lovingly snaps, "You'd have a messy flat, you boys." 

Now alone, alone with John and alone with his thoughts, Sherlock's scared. He stands against back wall directly across from the silent, sleeping figure of John. His heels firmly planted against the wall. It's only eight. He needs to distract himself. The silence is overwhelming. Why did he decide to talk to John, he feels worse now. Mycroft's words from years ago come back to him, 'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.' He should have listened to him. Sherlock let it all in because it felt so new, so good. But Sherlock's mission to ignore Mycroft has only made everything worse. Maybe Mycroft is the smart one.

_No._

Sherlock's the smart one. Sherlock knows what 'happy' feels like. Sherlock has let emotion cloud his judgement before. Yes, things went poorly sometimes, but at least he felt. It had been so long since he 'felt' before. It's been even longer for Mycroft, and that's why Mycroft isn't the smart one. If it hadn't been for... well for emotion, Sherlock wouldn't have made it this far, he would have given up a long time ago. Mycroft doesn't feel. Regardless of his 'concern' for Sherlock, he has nothing. No friends. Christ, it's like he never even felt at all. What happened to them? What made this way? For once, Sherlock's tired of it.

Sherlock has people. Friends. Right, he has friends? There's Lestrade. Molly. Mrs. Hudson's more like family, and John... well he has John too. Or, at least he _had_ John at one point. Before all this. Before Moriarty, before Magnussen, before Vivian Norbury, before everything. He had him once. Or maybe he never did. Maybe Sherlock has never had John. Just... flatmates. 

Sherlock's a complete idiot. What is he doing? What is he doing here? He has no right to be. He, he, he... he got Mary killed. His friend, Mary. Rosie's mother, Mary. John's wife, Mary. Mary, who despite everything, all her misgivings, loved John. Loved Sherlock. Knew Sherlock. Knew him well enough to know why Sherlock made no attempt to see John after the two of them got married. Knew why Sherlock is in this hospital room right now. Knew all of it, and still loved him.

He could leave. Just leave and slip quietly back into Baker Street. Come only when called- if he's called. John might prefer that. But he couldn't. He couldn't do that. He can't allow himself to that. John never left, so he won't either. But then again, Sherlock never actually wanted him to leave. Now, John might be better off if he did.

No. John deserves someone here when wakes up. It's decided. Sherlock's staying. He'll stay and wait. No matter how long. He couldn't be here last night and he hated that. He'll stay here tonight. So, Sherlock sits. He sits in the remaining chair at the far wall's table and he watches John. He watches the rise and fall of his chest. He watches his REM, he watches the heart monitor. But that's not all he watches. His mind begins a replay of the times before this. The good times. The friendly, but exasperated bickering over milk, spilt tea on files, failed cooking attempts. Then, nights yelling at the telly, nights spent in front of the fire, aimlessly discussing whatever passed through their minds, all-nighters spent on cases. All-nighters that John couldn't make it through. Nights where John fell asleep on the couch, in his chair, or in a chair at the desk while doing research for Sherlock. Nights where even Sherlock got a little sleep listening to the faint snore of a sleeping John. Days spent doing nothing. Days spent conducting experiments and updating the blog. Days spent walking around London when they had nothing else to do. Days they spent together.

God, Sherlock doesn't know how to be alone anymore. He _really has_ become codependent. He'll have a lovely time learning not to be in the months ahead. But he has tonight. He can spend tonight with John, though he may be sleeping, and remember every single part of it.

Hours pass, nurses slip in every once in a while to check on things. But in between visits the night is uneventful. Sherlock doesn't even move.

Until he does.

Having enough of the memories that really hurt more than they bring joy, he gets up. He doesn't do anything else quite yet. He just stands in front of the chair. Then, silently, he walks over and sits in the chair next to John's bed. Just sits. Nothing else. More time passes, Sherlock doesn't know how long, but he knows it has since a new round of nurses start to come in.

Then he gets brave.

He shouldn't do it. He really shouldn't. But he does.

Sherlock ever so slowly, with hesitation filling every bone in his body and every quiver of his being, brings his hand up by John's. He keeps it there, as if he were testing the waters, but really he's just afraid. But if he can't do it know, he'll never do it. Sherlock, millimeter my millimeter, moves his pinky finger so it lays gently across John's pinky.

And Sherlock stays like this, for hours, promising himself he'll be awake when John wakes up. He'll be awake so he can move his finger, that's what he tells himself. One or two nurses come in in every few hours to check up and ask him if he'd like some coffee. Sherlock declines each time, sending them away. None of the nurses give a second glance to Sherlock's hand.

Time ticks away. Slowly. Each tick of the clock laughs at Sherlock's best attempts to stay awake. He's so tired. He hasn't slept in ages. John calls it 'being human.' Sherlock calls it 'annoying.' The ticks and tocks of the clock grind into Sherlock's ears, driving him into insanity. But still, each tick and each tock make him sleepier and sleepier. Time couldn't possibly drag on any slower. When he finally does gather up the energy to look at his watch, it's four in the morning. He's gotten this far but Sherlock's only human after all. Despite his best efforts, despite how hard he's fighting it, Sherlock's eyes slip closed and his mind melts into a deep slumber.


	5. Listen to the Ice Man, He Says "Let Him In."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SO SO SORRY I haven't posted. Believe me I wanted to, I just couldn't find the time! I'm hoping things won't be so crazy soon and I'll be able to write more. Hopefully the chapter pleases <3

"How long's he been like that?"

"Hm?" the nurse questions as she fiddles with John's heart rate monitor. 

"Sherlock," he raises a finger towards the sleeping figure next to the bed, "How long has he been there?"

"Oh, well he's been here since early yesterday morning. Stayed up 'till around four this morning. Practically comes in at the crack of dawn every day. Doesn't want to leave either, but he's got the baby at home, you know? She's yours right? Darling thing."

"Yeah, she is isn't she.... He's been here every day?"

The nurse nods her head, "All day."

The corner of John's mouth raises in a tiny smile. It's tiny, barely there. It's odd seeing Sherlock asleep. He looks so much more peaceful, unlike himself, so calm. He's almost never sleeps this late, it's almost eight. John started waking up around six, and then around seven he was fully conscious. He would've called a nurse but he didn't want to wake Sherlock. Sherlock always needed sleep, and John found Sherlock's silent presence... he couldn't quite put a word to it. 

"Alright, that's everything! Dr. Wallace and Dr. Andrews should be in later to check up. You just rest now. No need to over-do it when you're just getting better."

"Right, thanks."

John sinks into his bed with a sigh. All hell has officially broken lose. And he thought things couldn't get any crazier. Now he's lying in a hospital bed shot by who? Eurus Holmes? Does Sherlock really have a sister? Why hasn't he ever talked about her? So many questions race through his mind. It's exhausting, feeling like you never know what's really going on.

 

As the morning drags on, the room is so quiet John can hear conversations from other rooms. He's surprisingly not tired for coming out of a coma. Wide awake in fact. John wishes Sherlock would wake up, but then again, John doesn't want Sherlock to wake up. Then they would have to talk. And John wants anything but that.

The door to John's room opens again and the nurse enters. He raises his eyebrows in curious expectation. 

"Just though I'd bring you some water in case you get thirsty, that's all," she sets a pitcher and a plastic hospital cup down on the stand beside John's bed and heads towards the door. 

"Uh, can you make sure the door shuts—"

The nurse pulls the door shut with a thump. 

"—quietly."

There's a rustle beside the bed and John can see Sherlock slowly waking up. Sherlock blinks a few times before his eyes open wide. His mouth parts the slightest bit. 

"Hey."

Sherlock swallows and sits up taller, pulling his jacket straight. He must have forgotten to take it off since the wrinkles it formed in the night are making appearances down the front. He forms the word slowly and it's come out quiet and on an exhale,

"John."

The two men hold each other's gaze and Sherlock's eyes go glassy. John can't look and turns his head, signaling to the pitcher of water and making an attempt to lean for it. 

"The nurse brought some water in. If you want some I think we can get another cup."

"No, here let me," Sherlock stands and swiftly rounds the bed and takes the cup and pitcher before John can get to it. He pours the cool water into the cup and hands it to John. It lingers intermittently between their hands before they both pull away, one hand with a cup, one hand empty. 

"Thanks," John takes the cup and lifts it to his mouth. The water is soothing to his dry throat. 

A deafening silence rings between them, and this time, there is no ventilator to fill it. 

"How do you feel?" Sherlock's voice comes out small and almost timid from John's left, where he still stands, eyes frozen on John.

John moves his eyes to look at Sherlock, "Well, I guess as well as I can be."

"Yes, I suppose so..."

More silence.

Sherlock speaks again. His words come quickly, strained, "You recovered quite fast. Faster than they had seen before."

John disregards Sherlock comment and asks his own question, "What about you? You must be exhausted. The nurse told me you were you up till early this morning?"

"Yes but it's nothing unusual—"

"Why didn't you go home?"

Sherlock shrugs and pauses, "Obvious isn't it? Even you could deduce that." 

But John won't have it. He's done playing games. 'Games' got him hurt. Got his wife killed. He simply waits for a real answer.

Sherlock swallows before he speaks again, "I couldn't leave."

John's mouth responds before his brain can catch up with it, and it's not until it's out that John realizes what he said.

"The hospital or me?"

There is a pause before Sherlock speaks his next word. He takes shuttering breath but no words come.

You.

"Right, ok then."

John half expected that. He half wanted Sherlock to just say it, whatever he isn't saying. It makes it so much more hard to be mad at him. He seems almost as broken as John feels. His thoughts are interrupted when Sherlock calls his name.

"John, I... I would like to sincerely apologize for... all of it. Everything."

"Not all of it's your fault, Sherlock. Not even most of it."

"Not true."

"Sherlock, it's not you fault that I got shot."

"Yes, it is."

"No."

"Yes. If I hadn't been high on all of those drugs then I could have been able to figure out the note, and if I had done that, I would have known."

"Known what?"

"That you were in danger."

Sherlock and John meet eyes and John tells him. John decides to tell him what's been unfolding in his mind since he woke up.

"I remember. When I was bleeding out, I remember it."

John watches Sherlock swallow and keeps going. "Bits and pieces only. You were there. You..." His eyes dart back and forth across his blankets and he tries to remember. "You were crying."

Sherlock is silent, not a single movement present on his body. 

"That's the first time I've ever seen you cry, you know."

Sherlock looks down at his hands, remaining careworn. 

"I didn't think— I just didn't think you did."

Sherlock clicks his tongue, "Well, I do."

"You said some things..."

This time Sherlock snaps his whole head up to meet John's eyes, waiting for him to continue. 

"...Except I can't tell what parts were real or not. I had this crazy... dream, I guess. You had a sister and she was working with Moriarty. We were in this, this... this asylum-like place and- and she made us complete these awful... 'games' is what I think I remember her saying—"

"Did you say 'sister'?" 

_Finally, an explanation._

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Right before she, you know," John gestures to his head, "she said she was your sister."

"Not possible. I don't have a sister."

"That's not what she said."

"John, don't you think if I had a sister I would know?"

"I guess that's true," John pauses, a small smile quivering at the corner of his mouth, "But if I have learned anything by being friends with you, it's that things aren't always what you expect," he lets out a small chuckle. Sherlock even lets the smallest of smiles creep onto his lips. 

But the laughing doesn't last and silence soon reigns again. Both men are desperate to fill it, but neither can think of anything to say. 

"Can you remember anything else?" Sherlock notices the change in John's face. He always notices. "We don't have to talk about if you would prefer not to."

"No, it's fine, er... I remember she pulled the trigger and everything slowed down. I was on the floor but I don't remember actually hitting it. I heard things that may or may not have been real; I heard alarm bells, and something like, maybe ocean waves. I... remember another big noise, like another gun shot... and then you were there. I tried to speak but I just couldn't. I was trying to tell you 'Vatican Cameos,'" John lets out a huff of air and continues, "I... I was scared. It was as if everything around me was flooding my senses all at once.... You looked so scared, Sherlock."

There's a slight pause and then, "I almost lost you."

"But it only counts if you did. You saved me Sherlock."

"I could have prevented it."

John sighs in slight exasperation, "Look, Sherlock, it wasn't your fault, alright? Everything isn't always _your_ fault. I mean, don't get me wrong, a lot of things are, but not this. Not this time. Stop taking credit where it isn't due, ok? I mean, really."

Sherlock doesn't respond nor make any intention to, he just stands there, staring down at John from his wounded eyes. 

"Sit down will you? My neck will get sore from looking all the way up there."

Sherlock obliges and rounds the bed in a few large strides, sitting cautiously down in the chair besides John's bed. 

"I heard things, but I don't know if they were real or not."

"You said as much."

How much did John hear? Sherlock lost control of what he was saying when he found John. The words just came out. He was so scared he was going to lose John then and there he, he-

"Sherlock."

-he was _so_ scared. How is it possible for people to be as scared as he was?

"Sherlock."

All he kept thinking is that if he lost John he'd lose... God he'd lose-

"Sherlock!"

"Wha- hm? Yes?"

"Are you alright? You, your hands..." John points to Sherlock's long, slender fingers gripping the arms of his chair for dear life.

"Oh, um, yes. Yes, I'm fine. Sorry, just..." Sherlock lets go and clenches and unclenches his hands.

"I'm okay, Sherlock. I'm okay now."

"Yes, well, our definition for 'okay' has become pretty subjective over the years."

"You're not wrong. But really, I'm okay now. You can stop worrying. I'll be up and at 'em before you know it."

John feels like an ass. This is going so poorly. Sherlock's a wreck, John doesn't know how to deal with this version of the man looking back at him. He can handle high Sherlock, he can handle angry Sherlock, he can handle intensely focused Sherlock, but this? He's never seen this before. This is different. 

"Sherlock, I think I owe-"

"No."

"Sorry?"

"No, you don't owe me anything. Just stop."

"What? No, I want to-"

"I said 'no,' John!"

"Then what!? What's happening here!? If you're not interested in apologies or explanations, what are you are you here for, Sherlock!? I don't know- I don't know what- God dammit!"

He feels light headed and out of breath, he pinches his nose. His breathing is coming too quickly and his lungs feel too weak to catch up.

"John..."

"I don't know how to talk to you anymore, Sherlock."

Once again, Sherlock remains silent. 

"What happened to us?"

"Time," is the response John gets, in a near whisper.

"Time?"

"Time happened. We ran out of it."

"I don't understand, what are you saying?"

He's lost his attention now. Sherlock's looking past John and into the corner of the wall, no longer listening. 

"Sherlock."

But their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Wherever the conversation was going, it would have to wait. 

"Sorry, can you come back lat-"

"Ah, good you're both here. Sherlock, John, good morning."

Whoever John had been talking to a moment ago was gone, he'd been replaced by terse, clipped Sherlock.

"Mycroft, I've been expecting you. Do take a seat. I'm sure we all desperately yearn to obtain whatever invaluable knowledge you come to depart on us." His sarcasm is stinging.

"Sherlock, put the bullets away. I've come unarmed. I'm here to explain what's happened.

"You think you know more than we do?" 

"That's usually the case, now be do be quiet Sherlock. And actually, I think I'll stand, thank you."

Sherlock delivers a noncommittal grunt and shifts back back to staring at the wall beyond John's left shoulder. Mycroft turns his attention to John, staring right into John with his cold, knowing eyes.

"John, nice to see you recovering well."

"Yeah, we can spare the niceties, Mycroft."

"Perfect, glad you feel the same. I trust you've already told Sherlock all you know."

A quick glance at the aforementioned precedes a, "Sort of, um, she pulled a gun and, uh-"

"Do forgive me, John, but I find myself rather more interested in what she _said_ to you. How much of that you can you recall?"

"Only some. It's all a bit cloudy."

Mycroft clicks his tongue and raises his umbrella outwards to examine it."That's alright. Lucky for us, most of that neighborhood uses CCTV, so we've got it all right here," he says as he procures a small thumb drive from his inside jacket pocket, "Sherlock, you're laptop please?"

Sherlock meets eyes with Mycroft, seemingly trying to tell Mycroft more than what he actually says, "Haven't you seen it already?"

"I thought John might like a watch." It's a loaded sentence and John can see it hit Sherlock square in the chest.

"You can just tell us."

"I'd like to see it, Sherlock. Let him play it."

Sherlock looks at him and then back to Mycroft. With the annoyance of being outnumbered exuding off of him, he gets up and grabs his laptop from the table by the door, giving Mycroft an evil glare as he unlocks it and shoves it into his chest, "Very well then."

Mycroft inserts the thumbnail and hits a few keys before passing the laptop to John, who sets in on his lap. The two other men each take either side of John's bed, all staring at the screen. John's looking at a freeze frame of him sitting down while the mysterious woman is locking the door. He clicks play and he's met with the voice. The smooth, languid voice that taunted him with dangled bits of information that day. How she was not only Faith Smith, but the lady on the bus too. How she had pinpointed both their weaknesses and exploited them.

Everything begins to happen quickly. John's standing up now, a gun pointed at him. He remembers this part, how confused he was. Until she said, 'east wind.' Something about that wasn't right, he'd heard that before. But before he can figure it out for the second time, her tale finishes. He almost doesn't want to watch this part, but it's too late. The gun goes off, the glass shatters, and John hits the floor. She doesn't move though, she just stands there watching John. They're all watching John now. Watching and hearing nothing but his struggles to stay alive. At least, not until there is the sound of a door slamming in the background and approaching footsteps. Sherlock has arrived, and almost as soon as his tall form enters the frame, Eurus tries to move towards John, but she never gets there. Sherlock's reaction is like lightning, pulling out a gun and firing it. 

His movements just as fast as before, Sherlock rushes to John's side and begins shaking him awake. He's shouting John's name, receiving no response. 

"There we've seen everything," Sherlock's voice sounds different not coming from the laptop's speakers, "I'll just-"

John swats his hand away, his gaze intensely focused on the playback in front of him. The Sherlock in the video is crying now, choking back sobs. John tears his face away from the screen to look at Sherlock, who turns his head before John can really see him. Back on the screen, Sherlock's still trying to get John to stay awake. 'John! You have to listen to me...'

"Turn it off."

'Please!... There-'

"John, please."

'There are things I need to say t-'

"I said turn it off!" Sherlock slams his laptop shut so hard he could have broken it. He snatches it up from John's lap and walks it back over to the other side of the room, nearly tossing it onto the table. Sherlock doesn't turn back around, John can only see his shoulders moving with each deep breath breath.

"Sher-"

"Don't." 

That's all that needs to be said. One simple word and John knows, this topic is not to be discussed. He can hear it in the tone, the punctuated 'd,' Sherlock is not going to talk about it.

"Perhaps it would better for me to return tomorrow, once collective mental states have improved," that last part spoken with an eye towards Sherlock's away-faced statue.

"Yeah, maybe that'd be best," John says apprehensively looking over to Sherlock, who turns around just as he finishes.

"No, Mycroft. You came here on business, let's finish the meeting. Now tell me, do I have a sister?"

***

"Good day, Mycroft. Give my best wishes to the Queen."

It's mid-afternoon now. The doctor visited while Mycroft was still explaining. He did the best he could with what he believes happened. Sherlock barraged him with questions, demanding explanations. John had his own questions too but mostly spent the time just listening, watching everything unfold in front of him. It was like a whole other conversation was going on between Sherlock and Mycroft beneath the surface, in a language he couldn't quite read or understand. By then end of it Sherlock especially keen to see Mycroft go.

"Sherlock, might I have a word with you in the hall before I go?" Mycroft manages to get out as his coat is being thrown upon him and he's been shuffled out the door.

"You've had all day, what possibly more do you have to say?"

"Sherlock. In the hall, please," this time holding the door open to Sherlock and motioning for him to step out.

"Good God, you're incessant." Sherlock grumbles as he steps through the door into the hallway. There's a few nurses minding about but otherwise the floor is relatively quiet.

"Alright, Mycroft, what?"

"You know exactly what Sherlock. I'm not going to insult your intelligence, albeit clearly lacking in common sense at the present moment, by pretending as if you don't. I'm tired of watching the pity party of self loathing you're throwing for yourself, and John is too."

"How would you know what John is feeling? You're the Ice Man, you don't even feel yourse-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft answers in a tone too loud for the quiet hallway, making Sherlock glance around for people who might be watching, "Stop shutting everyone out! I've let you get away with it for too long. You stopped talking to me a long time ago and that's fine. But not him, I won't let you do that. I thought John had made a difference. He _did_ make a difference, Sherlock. And now you're shutting him out, of all people. Don't, Sherlock, let him in. Let John in."

Sherlock just looks at him. He's filled with anger, anger because he knows Mycroft is right and he hates that. He hates that Mycroft knows.

"Shut up. Just shut up." 

But the words aren't said harshly like Sherlock had meant them to. They're weak, and by the last word his voice is trembling. Mycroft lays a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock turns away, not even wanting to notice the gesture. 

"Go back inside, Sherlock," and that's all he says before walking down the hallway as quietly as he had arrived.

Sherlock stares at floor, and then down the hallway, and then at the door for a few minutes, wanting to go back in but unable to move his feet. When he finally does he slips in, shutting the door quietly and awkwardly standing in the doorway. John watches him intently. He's trying to find out what's going to happen next.

"You alright?" is what John decides to start with.

"Been better."

John lets out a little huff, "Yeah, me too. Mycroft left?"

Sherlock nods.

"We can talk about it if you want, the whole sister thing," John offers.

"I don't know how to fix us."

And there it is. John sits up a little, his lips parting a fraction of an amount, just enough for a little air to seep in. "Me neither."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

Sherlock walks over to his chair besides the bed and sits down. John shifts to face him. They sit in these positions until John speaks a few moments later.

"I shouldn't of shut you out."

"You were grieving."

"It's no excuse. You were only trying to help."

And then Sherlock's face changes. It's heartbreaking for John to watch. "I'm lost, John. I'm so lost."

John breathes out an 'oh' as he see Sherlock breaking down, tearing up in front of him. "Sherlock... Come here..."

Sherlock hesitates before standing a bit and pulling his chair up to the bed. His knees bump the plastic side and his shins hit the edge. John let's his hand unfold in front of Sherlock. He raises his eyebrows a bit as he offers his next sentence.

"You have me."

Sherlock looks at John's hand. Then at John's face. And back again, eyes resting on John's hand. Then, ever so cautiously, Sherlock brings his hand and rests it softly in John's. John wraps his fingers around the side of Sherlock's hand and Sherlock returns the gesture.

"Always have."

Sherlock's eyes meet John's in surprise and John gives him a little smile. As he processes the words, Sherlock gives John a small nod in return, still holding his eyes to his.

"You look exhausted. You should get some rest, we both should. We can talk tomorrow."

"Yeah," Sherlock folds the corner of his lips in. He doesn't want to leave. Not again. But if John want's to rest...

"Hey," John leans his head down to meet Sherlock's drifting gaze, "You can just sleep here if you want. Bed might be a bit small but I can move over." 

John's heart is pounding. He doesn't think Sherlock will see it the wrong way, but is there a wrong way? Isn't that what John wants? To have Sherlock sleep next to him? 

Sherlock is searching John's face, thinking over what John has just offered him. He needs to answer, John is waiting for an answer.

"Ok."

John smiles down from his place in the bed at him, "Alright. Here, let me," John let's go of Sherlock's hand to help him shift himself over on the bed. Mid-shift he releases a breath that prompts Sherlock to say, "Be careful." John pauses to look at him with a smile, "I'm okay. Come on."

Carefully as to not hurt John, Sherlock climbs in besides him. He's on his side and very close to John. He can almost smell him, that distinct smell that only belongs to John that is now mixed with hospital laundry detergent on the sheets. John needs to come home soon.

John who is on his back, leans a bit to hit the switch on the wall behind the bed to turn off the lights. The room darkens quite a bit but light still seeps through the blinds on the window just enough so its not completely dark. John turns his head to face Sherlock and puts his hand out again. Sherlock takes it and their fingers wrap around each other's again. John gives Sherlock's hand a small squeeze and within minutes they're both falling asleep.


End file.
